


Arthur and Gladstone

by nottinghamroad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock and John are dogowners, but not much., well there's a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottinghamroad/pseuds/nottinghamroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has found out his English bulldog Gladstone is actually a girl, and she's pregnant with the neighbor dog's puppies. He goes next door to flat 221B to meet the neighbor and the neighbor dog (a lovely golden retriever) to pass along the news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur and Gladstone

**Author's Note:**

> So. I had this little bug in my head about writing an "Our dogs banged" AU for Johnlock. And I started it on the plane from London to Dallas and it just kind of grew into this whole thing. Some plot, some porn, and DOGS.

“And who are you?” 

A tall man in a magnificently cut suit opened the door to flat 221B. All this time living in 221A, John thought, and he never bothered to learn who lived next door to him. Now he saw why. The man had a thick head of curly brown hair that was perfectly styled and cheekbones John imagined could cut granite. God, this was distracting already. He recalled that he had been asked a question.

“John Watson, and this is my dog, Gladstone.” 

“I didn’t ask about the dog.” 

“Well, it’s relevant.” John reached down to pat Gladstone’s wrinkled forehead, trying to distract himself from his neighbor’s whatever-the-hell-color-that-was eyes. “My dog and your dog-” 

“Arthur!” The man called for his dog, cutting John off. A beautiful golden retriever trotted smartly up to the threshold and sat next to his master. 

“My dog appears to be pregnant.” John gestured to Gladstone, who drooled. 

“I hardly see how that is Arthur’s problem.” The man’s eyes darted down towards his impeccably groomed dog. 

“Arthur is the father.” John said. At this, Arthur perked up and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. It was as if he remembered Gladstone. 

“Well, I’m hardly surprised at the potency of Arthur’s sperm.” The man flicked a treat out of his jacket pocket and Arthur snapped it up out of mid-air. 

“Yes, they seem to like each other quite a bit.” John was watching Gladstone now, who had her eyes trained on Arthur and was grinning quite widely, further drool emanating from her mouth. The highest praise Gladstone could offer, really. 

His arm jerked slightly as Gladstone rose from her seated position to nuzzle as much of Arthur’s neck as she could reach. Though sturdy, Gladstone was not a tall bulldog. Arthur was lanky and elegant, like his master. The golden retriever accepted the affection in a dignified manner and licked the top of Gladstone’s head. 

“They really like each other,” John repeated, a bit blankly as Gladstone snuggled further into Arthur’s gleaming fur. The corners of the man’s mouth twitched as Arthur curled himself around Gladstone. John looked up, meeting those eyes properly for the first time. “What’s your name, anyway?” he asked. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The man extended a hand to John, who accepted the handshake. 

“John Watson.” 

“D’you want to come inside, then?” Sherlock’s voice was businesslike. 

“To talk about the puppies. Right.” John tugged gently at Gladstone’s leash, who was clearly resentful of being asked to leave Arthur’s embrace so soon. She raised reproachful brown eyes to John, who clucked at her like a disapproving mother hen. “It’s quite alright, darling, Arthur’s just there.” He gestured ahead at Sherlock’s dog, who was making his way to a massive plush dog bed. John unclipped Gladstone from her leash. She gamboled over to the bed, where the pair immediately resumed their cuddling. 

Sherlock was sitting in a red chair next to a fireplace, an identical chair opposite him. John took a seat.

“Right, so the puppies will be born in a few months.” 

“English bulldog and golden retriever. Should be a fun combination.” John cracked a grin, but Sherlock didn’t respond.

“They may be somewhat strange-looking, but I’m sure the pups will grow up just fine.” Sherlock had his phone out, and was tapping away at something.

“That wasn’t what I meant, I just thought-” 

“You thought my dog would produce funny puppies?” Sherlock sounded indignant. 

“No, I’ve just never seen that particular cross-breed,” John protested. “I just meant it will be a fun transition to watch.” 

“It would be inadvisable to put the puppies in a shelter. But assuming Gladstone produces at least 6 healthy pups, I don’t see how either of us could reasonably care for four dogs.” Sherlock continued tapping at his phone, and frowned at it. 

“Four is a lot,” John allowed. He was having trouble focusing while Sherlock was otherwise distracted. “Could you maybe-” 

“What.” 

“Put the phone down?” John phrased the question as delicately as he could. It seemed to work, as Sherlock set the device down on a side table.Though it wasn’t without a slight pursed lip in John’s direction. 

“I’m listing different dog adoption agencies and humane societies that have a good rate of placement.” Sherlock informed him. “Doing something _useful_.” 

“That’s very useful, yeah,” John agreed. “I just wanted to chat without the--em--distraction. You know. Face to lovely face, and all that.” _Really, John? Face to lovely face? Good one._ He kicked himself internally, but Sherlock seemed to be mollified. 

“Do you know anyone who might want a puppy, then?” He steepled his fingers under his chin and gave John a penetrating gaze. John found himself tearing his eyes away in order to focus on the answer. Those eyes were positively magnetic.

“The landlady, maybe?” John offered. “Mrs. Hudson has always said she wanted a dog, but has never gone and gotten one.” 

“Might be the perfect circumstance.” 

“And an old friend of mine-Mike Stamford.” 

“An old friend of _yours_?” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, interest piqued. 

“Well, yeah. We went to medical school together.” 

“Mike’s an acquaintance of mine as well.” 

“You went to medical school?” 

“God no. Too full of idiots. The coroner there lets me experiment in the morgue sometimes.” 

“Too full of idiots?” John inquired further. 

“Come to think of it, the coroner herself may want a puppy. She could do with some companionship anyhow,” Sherlock steamrollered right through John’s inquiry. 

“That’s three people, then. Assuming Gladstone is able to have six puppies, we only need three more.” John was actually quite impressed at the speed with which they were able to come up with this many likely candidates. 

“Good. Case halfway closed..” Sherlock leapt up from his chair. “Come and make some tea, then.” 

“You want me to make it?” John followed him into the kitchen, not sure to be alarmed or charmed at the ease with which he seemed to fit into Sherlock’s daily life. 

“You’re clearly the domestic type, and it will help you think to brew some tea. Yes, I want you to do it.” Sherlock had removed two mugs and a massive cardboard box full of Yorkshire tea from his cupboard. John filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. 

“Yorkshire tea?” he asked of Sherlock’s back, which was now chatting in low, animated tones to Arthur. 

“Proper tea.” Sherlock corrected him without turning around.

“Proper tea, then.” John hovered a hand over the kettle to make sure it was heating up, and then joined Sherlock at the dog’s bed. He crouched right next to the taller man, expecting him to move to the side to allow for further personal space. Sherlock took no notice of John’s sudden invasion of his personal bubble. 

“You will make very handsome puppies, Arthur. I have complete faith in you,” Sherlock was saying to his dog, who was listening attentively and enjoying the scratch Sherlock was giving his left ear. Gladstone was staring adoringly up at Arthur. John scratched behind her ear, a gesture she leaned into and closed her eyes at. 

“Gladstone will need time to wean the puppies,” John said, the thought just coming to him.

“She can do it here. Arthur will make a superb father, I’m sure.” Sherlock patted the top of his dog’s head and returned to the kitchen to select a mug. John followed him. 

“And what, I just won’t see my dog for a few months?” 

“Of course not. You’ll come and see her here everhy day. After your day at the clinic, or what have you.” Sherlock dropped a teabag into his mug and then into John’s.

“How do you know I’m a doctor?” John asked, not remembering that he had just mentioned his time in medical school. 

“I’m a private detective,” Sherlock said, with a slight air of grandeur. John couldn’t help poking a bit of fun at Sherlock’s over-inflated sense of self.

“That can’t possibly be a real job.” 

“I assure you it is a real job!” Sherlock asserted, slightly stung. “I’ll have you know I have been in the employ of the Queen herself before.” 

“Have you?” Now John was impressed. “Do tell.” And Sherlock was off recounting the details of his latest case, the flow of which was only interrupted by the squealing of the teakettle. John poured the hot water and listened to Sherlock talk about his job, and marveled at his stupidity at having never met his neighbor before.   
__________

“And so, in the end, it turned out to have been the butler.” Sherlock concluded the case description with a flourish, turning to John for some sign of approval.

“That’s amazing.” John intended the phrase to be a sincere compliment, delivered with the stoicness characteristic of his military doctor days when congratulating a colleague on a particularly tough save. Instead, it came out as more of a sigh. Damn. 

“That’s not what people usually say.” 

“What do they usually say?” 

“Piss off.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips were doing that twitchy thing again, the hint of a smile, but it wasn’t quite allowed to come through. 

“It was amazing, that was.” John delivered the second compliment with more vigor this time, amazed that anyone could ever see this man’s skill as anything but stunning. “It was extraordinary, it was brilliant, it was-” and he trailed off here, unsure of what other adjective was fitting to describe Sherlock’s skill. 

The brunette took quite a prolonged sip of tea, and John could see a faint pinkness in the bits of his cheeks that the mug couldn’t cover. 

“Meretricious, that’s all.” Sherlock set the tea down, and the blush appeared to have receded. 

“Doesn’t seem like a superficial job to me.” John drained the rest of his tea. 

“I’ve only told you about the one case.” 

“Yes, a case wherein you discerned that it was the butler who stole the Queen’s diamonds based on nothing more than a disused cocktail napkin and a discarded blue tie. Incredible, how you find evidence from such tiny details.” John folded his arms and leaned back on the table, surveying Sherlock again. The brunette was blushing again and studying the box of Yorkshire tea intently.

“Do you know you say that a lot?” Sherlock told the tea. 

“Say what?” John raised his eyebrows. 

“Incredible.” Sherlock continued talking to the teabox, so that John could only see the one side of his face.

“Only because it’s true.” 

“You can stop saying it now,” Sherlock told the tea very sternly. John inched closer to Sherlock. 

“Why? Is it making you blush?” His voice had dropped a bit in pitch without him really realizing, and it did nothing to get rid of the crimson hue in Sherlock’s cheeks. If anything, it deepened. 

“No, I-” Sherlock broke his gaze away from the tea and turned to face John, who was very close to him now indeed. There were just a few short inches of space between them, a space that felt much greater as John met Sherlock’s eyes again. They were kalaidoscopic in their color, and in that moment John decided he might like to look into those eyes every day until he died. 

The pause was heavy, and an intense hunger palpitated between the two of them. 

And then there was no pause, because John couldn’t take it anymore, and he closed his fist in Sherlock’s lapel and tugged the taller man down until their lips met. It was messy and uncoordinated and John felt a bit like he was flailing around in the dark until he managed to capture the blazing light and heat in front of him that was Sherlock Holmes. And he was so overcome with the sensation of being this close to Sherlock, with the sensation of Sherlock’s plush lips on his own, that didn’t occur to him until a few moments later that he ought to ask if this was alright. 

He pulled himself away from the taller man for a brief moment, but was barely able to get out the words “this alri-” before Sherlock raked his fingers through John’s hair and pulled him back for more. 

“Yes of course it’s alright,” Sherlock gasped in between kisses, and with this approval John threw himself into the kiss completely, mugs and tea completely forgotten. He steered Sherlock towards the kitchen island and backed him up against it, unable to keep back a low sound in the back of his throat at the slide of lips and tongue that was happening _right here, in his neighbor’s kitchen, and good God why hadn’t he done this before_. 

“My God, Sherlock, your _mouth_ ,” John managed after several more moments. Sherlock responded with a nibble at John’s lower lip, which elicited another back-of-the-throat noise from John. It was in this brief moment of reaction that Sherlock took control and crowded John up against the nearby wall that marked the entryway into the kitchen. 

The taller man seemed determined to get their bodies as close together as possible, and rutted up against John in a way that was just _magnificent_ and _God, where did he learn to do that_ , were the only coherent thoughts in John’s mind before all thought left him completely at the feeling of Sherlock’s nimble fingers unzipping his pants and taking him into his hand. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John bit out, and grabbed as much of Sherlock’s beautiful curls as he could while Sherlock’s hand moved and stroked and then did something _amazing_ and John may or may not have cried Sherlock’s name out as he came into his hand in his _neighbor’s kitchen_. Once the white light had receded enough, John dragged Sherlock’s head back up to his own and reclaimed his mouth in a bruising kiss. 

“Liked that, did you?” Sherlock smirked into John’s mouth, who rolled his eyes because _of course_ Sherlock would snark at him during sex. 

“All this time-” John was saying in between finding new bits of Sherlock’s neck that he liked and trying to steer the taller man over to the couch. “Watching you come into your flat--at terrible hours of the day--but with that sanctimonious little grin on your face (a grin Sherlock was wearing right then, as it would happen)--and wanting nothing more than to _kiss it--right--off--you._ But I didn’t even know your name.” They had finally made it to the couch, and John just sort of shoved Sherlock down onto the couch and kicked off his unzipped pants before kneeling in front of Sherlock. He gently loosened Sherlock’s pants and slid them off along with his boxers.

“Beautiful,” he said, taking in the extent of Sherlock’s lanky frame and ending with his mussed curls and kiss-swollen lips. “You are absolutely beautiful.” Sherlock blushed again and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then just grinned, wide and stupid and _dammit_ if John didn’t want to see that huge wide smile in his dreams. 

The smile was then replaced with a series of incoherent noises that steadily increased in volume until Sherlock shouted his name and John was swallowing as best he could but still spluttering a bit. John hoisted himself up onto the couch next to Sherlock and they both caught their breath for a few moments. 

“That was-”

“Amazing.” Sherlock supplied. 

“Yeah. Amazing.” John looked over at Sherlock, who looked just as debauched as he felt. His gaze fell on the dogs, who had miraculously fallen asleep during the events of the last several minutes. 

“Arthur doesn’t look like he wants Gladstone to leave,” Sherlock remarked. 

“Gladstone is happy right where she is, I think.” John reached a bit blindly across the couch for Sherlock’s hand, and found it. 

“Want to spend the night?” Sherlock looked over at John.

“Oh, God, yes.”


End file.
